


Acquainted with the Night

by WriteMeToHell



Category: DICKENS Charles - Works, Oliver Twist - All Media Types, Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens, Twist (2003)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Forced Prostitution, Gay Character, Gay Male Character, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Newspapers, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Toronto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21924250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteMeToHell/pseuds/WriteMeToHell
Summary: What Charles needed was a story.What Oliver needed was a way out.And neither could do it alone.(or the sequel to the 2003 gay indie film that I can't stop watching on youtube)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Acquainted with the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Twist is a movie that's been stuck in my brain way longer than it should. Not just because of how graphic and heartbreaking it is, but also because of the weird plot twist (lol) that semi ties it to the original Dickens novel. Namely, that "The Senator" is most likely Oliver's long lost biological father who straight up dooms his kid to a life of poverty just to save his own skin. 
> 
> I wanted to look into the implications of that decision, and what that would mean for the characters long term. So this my remedy for that (also because this Oliver deserves a happy ending and I want to give him one damnit).
> 
> Also, as of right now, this is not a slash fic. Meaning, that while several of the characters are gay, romance is not going to be the focus their relationship.
> 
> Also-also, Charles is meant to be a proxy for Charles Dickens. If Charles Dickens was still young, gay, and lived in Toronto in 2006. He's also 25, the age the real life Charles Dickens started writing Oliver Twist. Fun trivia fact!

_"People like us don't go out at night, 'cause people like them see us for how we are."_

_-Oliver Twist, Charles Dickens_

The photo, to Charles’ eye, was indiscernible. 

An outline of a car could be seen, and between it were two small figures in fuzzy silhouette- one slight with a shock of white blonde hair, the other taller and balding, with a square jaw and a slight stoop to his stance. The latter’s face was profile, as if he were checking over his shoulder for anyone else who might exist out in the murky celluloid abyss. 

“So, what do think?” 

His senior editor Cliff loomed over him eagerly, a fazed out cigarette dangling limply between his fingers. Charles fought the urge to break out the Ozium.

“Well, it’s definitely a picture with two people in it. What else am I supposed to see here?” 

His coworker rolled his eyes. “Come on man, look closer.” He stabbed a stubby fingernail into the taller man’s head. “The profile, that jaw. It’s obvious.”

Charles leaned in and squinted at the fuzzy grey lines.“This could be any white guy with a bad hairline over the age of forty. Who the hell is it supposed to be?”

Cliff took a swipe of his cigarette and grinned. “Senator fucking Brownlow! C’mon!”

Charles gave what he hoped was an incredulous look. He opened his back file drawer and took out an old clipping about the Toronto housing crisis he wrote a little over a year ago, back when he was still freelancing. Brownlow and several others of the conservative set had helped pass a bill that allowed landlords to set their own prices when it came to facility bills and rent hikes. Vulnerable communities had been badly affected. “Vulnerable” here meaning gay. Or as close to gay as he could possibly imply. That was the one thing he liked about working for _The Daily Xtra!_ \- everything was blunt and out in the open. There was nothing to read between the lines when you were covering the best jello shots at Woody’s during Pride month.

Now with the pictures spread out before him, Charles was starting to see what Cliff was talking about. Head, jawline, nose; it all added up. 

“Okay, so maybe that is Senator Brownlow. We see him getting out car, so what?”

Cliff took another puff and grinned. “I forget how green you are sometimes. You don’t spend a lot of time downtown, do you? Church and Wellesley? The Bay?” 

Charles’ ears flushed. “No, maybe I’ve got better things to do. What’s your point, are you saying Brownlow’s a closet case?”

Cliff gave a nicotine infused grin. “Better. See those buildings? That’s the abandoned car lot off of 46th. And the one over there is a notorious crack house. That’s been the number one pickup spot for tricks for the last ten years or so. Maybe even longer.”

“So… you’re saying…” Charles knew exactly what Cliff was saying. But he didn’t want to be the one to say it.

“I’m saying our great mouthpiece for family values of the last two decades has been cruising in the gay district of Toronto. And judging by the size of his partner, he’s got a taste for the under eighteen set.”

Charles’ mouth went dry. “We can’t know that for certain…”

Cliff jutted his cigarette in Charles’ general direction. “Really, ‘cause that’s pretty damning evidence to me! We need to get this out stat.”

“Cliff, this is just a picture. It’s not even a very good one. Shouldn’t we-”

“We’ll do a census of all the rent boys in the greater Toronto area. See who’s willing to squeal. Most will if you give them enough cash.”

He said it so casually, as if they were talking about baseball stats or the weather. Way too callous for Charles’ liking. He took another look at the small, blonde figure in the photo. It was hard not to think back to his own teenage years, fraught with lonely Friday nights and lunch hours spent by himself in the school library. He had been shy, pimply, and utterly miserable. But he had been allowed to be a teenager. Whoever this boy was (and he prayed to the powers that be it wasn’t actually a boy at all), any semblance of a normal adolescence had been ripped from him the moment he started parking in strangers’ car. It was almost too painful to think about. 

Charles lowered his voice to a hush, hoping Cliff would follow suit. “Maybe you’re getting a little too excited about this.”

“I have every right to be excited about this. Brownlow’s been throwing a hissy fit every since the marriage act passed. If this gets out, he won’t just lose his seat, he’ll lose his whole fanbase.”

“I know that, but…” Charles tried to choose his words carefully. “...If what you're saying is true, that means there’s got to be at least one minor involved. We can’t just bombard into this. This isn’t just about catching Brownlow, we need to think of the kid’s welfare too.”

Cliff clapped his hand on Charles’ shoulder. “That’s what I like about you man. Always looking out for the little guy. That’s why I wanted you in on this, I think you have the sensitive touch this story needs.”

“Huh.” Charles didn’t know what to say. “Sensitive” wasn’t a word Cliff used often. _The Daily Xtra!_ might’ve been in service to the gay community of Toronto, but it was still a tabloid. And tabloids didn’t exactly thrive on sympathy. 

But maybe there was some truth to what he was saying. After all, if he looked into this, what would the worst case scenario be? If it had been a consensual meeting between two adults, Brownlow would still be called out as a hypocrite and get his due. In the worst case, they’d get the police involved and help the kid out. And if it all turned out just to be a big misunderstanding… Well, then there wouldn’t be anything to worry about, would there?

Charles gave one last look at the photo before turning back to Cliff. “Alright, what do you need me to do?”

“Well, I’ve got a buddy with a photography studio who can try and make the picture more clear. But while I’m off doing that…” Cliff gave another nicotine stained grin.

“I thought you could do some investigative reporting.”

* * *

Oliver stared at the bricks in the wall for what felt like an eternity. After a while, they began to stare back. 

It was a game he had played for as long as he could remember; when was he spending the first night at a new group home, or when he had been vaccinated for rabies after one of his foster parents’ dogs bit him on the shin. Or in the final hours after his mother’s death, when he was stuck in the waiting room at the free clinic, with nothing but sterile white walls to comfort him. 

If he stared long enough, the edges around his eyeline grew blurry, and small splotches would flicker in and out of his vision, subtly warping whatever he had stuck his gaze on. Eventually, his mind would grow hazy as well, and then it would feel as if he had risen out of his body entirely. Sometimes it felt like he didn’t have a body at all. 

It was these moments that gotten him through the last two years. 

The man was finishing up, climbing back into his feet and casually wiping his lips on the sleeve of his flannel. Oliver tried to remain as detached as possible as he thumbed through a small stack of bills.

“Thirty, right?”

Oliver nodded numbly. His eyes remained on the wall as the man stuffed a couple his bills into his jean pocket. He always made sure never to look at them in the eye.

“Here’s thirty five. Never stop being so pretty.” He gave a condescending pat on the cheek before turning away. When his shadow no longer lingered at the opening of the alleyway, Oliver started to breath again. He thought back to what his mother used to say every time he got nervous. “Just take a deep breath and breath buddy. You don’t need to hold the whole world on your shoulders. Not while I’m with you.”

Bitter words to think of now.

He joined the rest by the sidewalk, where five or so other guys shivered in small clumps against the frigid air. Everybody was friendly enough, but still aloof. Desperateness sometimes did that to you. They were, after all, each others’ competition. Most of the old guard from when Oliver first started were gone; Noah had died from a drug overdose, Charlie had thankfully gotten away with Betsy and was now in rehab, and Dodge… Well, the less said about Dodge the better.

Oliver was no longer the baby of the group, but he wasn’t one of the oldest just yet, thankfully. He was still a teenager, and that still meant something around here. Bill’s death had changed the whole atmosphere of sex work in the greater Toronto area; it was less organized now, and based less on routine clients. It made everything a bit more ruthless, and that suited Oliver just fine. Just as long as he didn’t as ruthless as the people who fucked him over in the first place. Bill and Fagin and Dodge- Well, maybe not Dodge. With him it was different. 

And anyway, it wasn’t like any of this was permanent. If he had learned anything from his years in foster care it was that nothing was. He’d been saving enough money to rent a small motel room with a couple of the other guys, and he was looking into completing his OSSC. Being a legal adult came with many perks (being free of the foster system was a major one), but he still felt as though he had been abruptly shoved into a game that he was perpetually doomed to lose. He had no idea how to get hold of his old files, and the notion of going into any office building made him break out in a cold sweat. When he had gotten into hustling he had been seventeen and green and completely clueless to what he was getting into. And when he had come to his senses, it was too late. Sometimes it seemed like all he knew how to do was eat, sleep, and hustle. And do none of it particularly well.

But that couldn’t be permanent either. After all, nothing was.

“God, that car’s been going back and forth for a whole fucking hour. Just park already dumbass.” 

One of the newer kids whose name Oliver forgot (Derrick? Darren?) was frantically rubbing his arms and leaning against the balls of his feet, doing his best to ward off the cold. Oliver squinted against the headlights and tried to make out who was behind the wheel. A man, of course, but of what variety Oliver couldn’t tell. A closet case, most likely. The car finally parallel parked, and a window was lowered. Derrick-Darren clapped his hands in delight.

“Fucking finally!” He bounded over to the vehicle, his breath leaving a trail of ashen air behind him. “I call dibs, I saw him first.”

Oliver didn’t try to argue. He had never been a fan of cars. He watched Derrick-Darren slow down his pace and stop beside the car, leaning his head through the window. His head was ducked inside for only a moment before it popped out again. Derrick-Darren looked back to the sidewalk where Oliver and the others stood and scowled. Then he turned and made his way back over to them, hands stuffed violently in his pockets. He went directly to Oliver.

“You should have told me he was a regular. Them I wouldn’t get my fucking hopes up.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

Derrick-Darren gestured with his chin over towards the parked car. “That guy, he asked specifically for you.”

“What?” Oliver squinted, trying to make out the license plate. He could’ve sworn he’d never seen that vehicle before in his life. He hardly knew anyone who owned a car as it was. Anyone who had known him back before he ran away had probably forgotten about him by this point, maybe even the undertaker guy he used to work for (and that was definitely not a hearse). The only other option could have been _Him_ , and Oliver didn’t want to think about that. It was unlikely. Very unlikely. _He_ had made it very clear that he never wanted to see Oliver again. And at this point, Oliver was perfectly fine with that. 

An ugly thought eclipsed Oliver’s mind as he started across the street. A car had been following Dodge right before he had his breakdown. He still wasn’t privy to the details of what went on the few times they had met up, but it couldn’t have gone well. After all, nobody goes on a violent rampage without reason. There must have been a trigger point between the Dodge who had lent Oliver his bed and the Dodge who had beat the living crap out of him only a few weeks later. It was a natural risk of the trade, but terrified Oliver to think how one bad night could change the course of your entire life. 

Sometimes it felt like Oliver was reaching his own tipping point. 

He peered through the window. A man sat primly in the driver’s seat, arms crossed defensively against his chest. He was a type of client Oliver had never seen before. For one thing he was young, maybe early thirties at most. He had a slim build, and dark floppy hair that fell just below his ears. He was also clearly nervous. 

Better to start this gently. “Uh, hi there. Is there anything I can do for you?”

The man’s eyes became saucer plates. He jolted his head in Oliver’s direction then back at something in the seat beside him. 

“Um, yes. Uh…” The man trailed off, his eyes ricocheting back and forth. “I was, uh, wondering if I could, um, ask you a few questions.”

Oliver sighed and leaned away from the car. This was not how he wanted to spend the night, catering to the needs of some strung out closet case. “Time is money, man. I don’t do anything for free.”

“Oh, right.” The guy quickly ducked over and pulled out a wallet, flipping through it rapidly. “Could I talk to you? Maybe, I don’t know, for an hour? How much would that be?”

“Uh, a hundred?” 

“A hundred. Right.” The man looked nervously at his wallet again. “Alright, I can do that.”

“Great.” Oliver ducked around the front and got into the passenger's seat. “You’re paying for the motel too.”

“The what-?” The man’s face had turned ashen white.

“I don’t do it in cars. Not for a whole hour, at least.” 

“Oh, no. Oh no no no.” The man shook his head rapidly. “It isn’t like that. Listen, is there a diner nearby? Or maybe a coffee place? I’m a reporter, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” 

Oliver raised an eyebrow. This was not how he was expecting things to go. “Uh, there’s a twenty four hour joint a couple blocks away. But you’re paying for that too. I wasn’t planning on eating tonight.”

“Right. Of course, of course.” Even in the poor lighting, Oliver could see that the man’s knuckles were white. It was bizarrely comforting to know that someone was more nervous than him. It made him feel powerful. 

They drove in silence for about a minute before Oliver got up the nerve to talk again. “So, uh, what kind of questions do you want to ask me?”

“Oh, right.” The man patted a manilla folder that had been propped up in one of the cup holders. “Can you open that for me?”

Oliver silently obliged. Inside was a grainy black and white photo, digitally altered and zoomed in so that the outlines came through grayish and fuzzy. The man looked back at him curiously, as if he was trying to gauge Oliver’s reaction.

“This was taken a few years ago, right in the area we just left. Anything familiar to you? Or anyone, I guess?”

The photo, to Oliver’s eye, was frighteningly familiar. Two men, a black car. A streetlamp, that jawline. The smallness of one figure, the looming ferocity of the other. And the terrifying suspicion that they were being watched. A suspicion that apparently had come true, Oliver thought bitterly. 

Oliver looked over at the reporter, who was still staring at him intently. A sense of dread was beginning to bubble up in his stomach. 

This wasn’t permanent. After all, nothing was. But didn’t mean the past couldn’t come back to mark him in new ways. He couldn’t let that happen again. Not this time.

Oliver wordlessly dropped the photo, unbuckled his seatbelt, and pushed open the car door. There was, for a moment, a flying sense of relief before he hit the pavement below him. 

And then another moment, when everything went black. 


End file.
